Your Beautiful Martyr
by Kyoka-BOO
Summary: Forever is a lie. Yet in front of your face, my blood will be your sacrifice for that hopeless goal. [Written for Livejournal 30 deathfics][Rewrite]


**Fandom: **Prince of Tennis  
**Title: **Your Beautiful Martyr  
**Rating: M **(Please take this as your warning.)  
**Characters: **Tezuka Kunimitsu, Fuji Shuusuke  
**Pairings:**TezukaxFuji  
**Themes: **#14—Lust  
**Warnings: **Mature content, violence, character death, suicide  
**Disclaimer:**Everything except my two original characters in this belongs to Konomi Takeshi. Thank you very much, Konomi Takeshi!  
**Summary: **Forever is a lie. Yet in front of your face, my blood will be your sacrifice for that hopeless goal.  
**Authors Notes: **This turned out really…. Dark.

**Remember to take note of my warnings. I make them for a reason, and a lot of material is potentially offensive below. Remember that you need to know what to expect before you read this. **

Well, I rewrote this, finally. This was actually what "Only Suiting" was supposed to be, but that one was a combination of evil muses and laziness. So, this is the rewrite. As always, this is for the 30 deathfics livejournal community.

Just pretend I didn't write this. I'm bad at anything even remotely PWP (though I did try and include plot in here. Really! Truly! I think my plot disappeared because it's about three in the morning, though.)

* * *

**Your Beautiful Martyr**

When his calm eyes trace the paper, he doesn't know what he's missing. The letter is written formally, on the nicest paper tinted with gold edges that reflected his eyes, written in dark black ink, and with characters that danced neatly across the paper like an ancient work of art so beautifully crafted that it couldn't have been considered human. His eyes traced it again and again, though, and like a small child he could not recognize each character whose lines traced gracefully around in a design, as if they were foreign to him. He squinted, adjusted his glasses with a small gesture, but still was unable to distinguish anything.

There was a subtle gracefulness of a natural day, bordered by the fresh smelling wind, but to Tezuka, there was something wrong.

Things were too beautiful to be true sometimes; he thought while his heart continued to pound deafly to his ears so that he grew dizzy and stupefied. He didn't know if it was shock that kept him from reading the letter or the absolutely familiar scrawl that traced across the paper with a different type of finality that echoed deeply in his heart like an eerie melody for his heart that had been composed solely for him. Each quiet conversation of the wind grew yet quieter. Each path softened, and his footsteps became thunder.

All he could read was one line.

_Clearly, there is only one way to end this._

From that single line, everything was condemned. All other events came to a grinding halt, but his heart did not stop. No, it was sent careening into a wall, shattering into tiny, miniscule shards that glittered in the sunlight. Yet somehow, it didn't hurt, so he read along the lines that spoke in such an uncharacteristic manner to him. His calmness showed through, even when below he squirmed suddenly at that tone of voice that screamed into his ear. Quietly, he drew the letter back and traced his fingers of his free hand against the paper as if meant to quell that silent voice that gave him a headache.

I've never been one to avoid the point; funny, I thought that one day, you would be in this position, not I.

Then, he felt like he was going crazy; the muscles in his hand tensed and he dropped the letter. The paper fluttered innocently to the floor, burning his feet. The very touch of paper against skin was maddening. Insane.

Clearly their roles had reversed, but Tezuka hadn't quite noticed how it had happened. It happened perhaps over the years where their tolerant relationship allowed their personalities towards each other to change, to the point where their differences in view were screaming in his ear. Old Tezuka did not like this, but new Tezuka found it all too natural. In outward appearance 'Old Tezuka' and 'New Tezuka' were anything but different, but his innate mind traced the subtle changes in thought patterns, as they slowly changed in favor of Fuji's appearance.

Fuji had always been a beautiful person.

From birth, Fuji had been gifted with a graceful, masculine beauty and a fragility that betrayed his true nature, a boiling disposition and a fierce sense of possessiveness towards anyone held close to his heart. Funny that Tezuka had turned out to be one of those, and slowly as they grew to be greater friends, Tezuka was drawn closer and closer into that tempting, seductive gaze that teased him a few times too many during middle school, even when they were model students, when Tezuka couldn't have possibly thought of another man in the same way.

Graduation was bittersweet.

He delivered his speech feeling detached and then joined his classmates in the small ceremony for their graduating class. That day, the words that passed his tongue sounded fond, entailing many goodbyes. In his words, though, there were no false promises of calls that he would never make, and visits to people he would probably never see again. Few groups of friends held matching letters of acceptation. Naturally, Tezuka had not been one to pry. Fuji only stood a footstep away from him, though during the day, that distance greatened, and then shortened to only a few heated centimeters. However, not once during their time together did Tezuka ask what high school Fuji planned on attending. Perhaps, he thought that Fuji's matters were not those he needed to pry into. Maybe it was something more, but something that Tezuka wanted to ignore.

Day drifted into night, and Tezuka offered to walk Fuji home, even though during the walk, he knew they would not speak a single word to the other.

Maybe, though, more than that, he did not want to face the fact that he was saying goodbye to Fuji perhaps permanently. Throughout the day, Fuji stole none-too-shy glances at Tezuka while he returned them properly with firm reprimand, not wavering in his strictness on their last day together at school. Figures, that at the end of the ceremony Fuji smiled in a strange way and slowly turned his head away from Tezuka's gaze, though not quick enough to mask a flash of sparkling blue. Tezuka couldn't figure out why, at that moment, his heart skipped a beat and his body heated a degree with wild unfamiliarity.

Part of Tezuka did not want to face the idea of saying goodbye to Fuji permanently. Throughout the day, Fuji had taken his time to steal none-too shy glances at Tezuka's face and eyes while in turn, Tezuka gave them firm reprimand. Into the breeze, Fuji smiled and tugged slightly at the collar of his uniform while Tezuka's eyes traced each delicate movement. That, in Fuji's mind, was revenge enough. Near the end of the ceremony that day, and especially at the end of the night, Fuji smiled in the strangest way possible and slowly turned his head away from his gaze; that wasn't to say that Tezuka's eyes weren't quick enough to catch a flash of sparkling blue. At that moment, Tezuka's heart fluttered slightly in his chest, but for the world, he would have never quite figured out why. Fuji just had a strange effect on him, numbing over all his emotions until all that was left was raw instinct.

Fate was, more often than not, cruel.

Their studies and routes coincidentally intersected, but for months, Tezuka failed to even turn his eyes to face Fuji's stormy glory. When he did, all he was able to see was Fuji's lovely, smiling face with the fragility of a rose petal. Calming the feelings that washed over his soul, Tezuka would straighten his back, force his thoughts back to his studies and purposely not allow his eyes to drift out the window to chase the clouds that stared back at him, daring him to turn his thoughts back to the boy with the handsome, no, beautiful face.

By the sixth month, their chance meetings became coincidental brushes, until day in and day out, even though they were a building apart and focusing on different goals, their paths met more than once a day. Tezuka focused on tennis, Fuji focused on art, namely photography, yet their bonds from middle school were all but forgotten. The day Fuji left tennis, Tezuka thought their rivalry would succumb to nothingness; he thought that everything, all the bonds they had built would turn to dust and be carried away. The moment never came, though, because so soon as Fuji quit tennis, the tension grew. Tezuka's mind dared that he face Fuji again on the courts only to see him challenging the world, coated with sweat and breathing hard as he merely glided across the court, returning every rally with skillful counters and breathtaking talent. Deep within his mind, he wanted again to see Fuji's calm face not even ripple in his knowledge of victory as the shout of 'Love-40, game, Fuji Shuusuke!' ring across the court. On a scoreboard, their matches would be dead even, and a crowd would gather to watch as the storm grew. Fuji and Tezuka were breathtaking alone, but together, they had an effect that could knock bystanders off their feet.

Yet, somehow, he never thought he would see that image again, at least not on the courts.

The image of a breathless Fuji plagued his dreams and nightmares night after night, and by the seventh month of their high school year, the picture of Fuji's sharp blue eyes took a place in his mind that could almost be considered sacred. Yet, nothing about him seemed to change. He merely appreciated Fuji more. Guided by a supposedly moralistic sense of justice, he took his place at Fuji's side, as Fuji's best friend. Little was known about Tezuka Kunimitsu or Fuji Shuusuke aside from the fact that they were once members of the same middle school tennis club, and they were the top two in their class. It often fluctuated between Tezuka and Fuji over small points. Both seemed equally brilliant, though Fuji's brilliance was more cleverness, and Tezuka's was far more attributed to tactile intelligence.

A miniscule thread held them apart. Their distance was sacred, and neither dared to violate it.

Nonetheless, on the nights when Tezuka felt the coldest, he often chose to invite Fuji to study sessions at the library the following afternoon that were far more an excuse to keep their eyes pressed into their schoolbooks while stealing knowing glances. Always, their proximity grew distant, and they always sat on opposite sides of the table in the library. Every so often, Fuji would scribble something in his notebook, and Tezuka would follow suite only to break the fragile silence of the atmosphere. Fuji's eyes steeled, and a cool smile crept across his face at the very knowledge.

As if to tremble at the sudden, frightening roar that their proximity created, Tezuka drew back and listen to the musical quality of Fuji's voice that brightened the very atmosphere with false sunlight, breaking through the shadows eerily. At no moment was his desire to reach out and break their distance more strong than those moments, when Fuji would silently sing him tempting melodies that darkened his heart at their tone. Each note grew clearer, more pronounced and defined until the music was a symphony to Tezuka's ears. He wondered at night, as he lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. Then, in remembrance of the natural melody Fuji's aura created, he would turn onto his side, fold his arms across his chest, and lower his head to his chest. In darkness, without his glasses everything blurred, and his breath caught in his throat. When Fuji's image reached his eyes, everything cleared, but now when his lungs screamed for air, he could not bring himself to take a breath. Fuji's very picture extinguished all the life in him, and as calmly as ever, he could only sit on the side as he bore witness to his own destruction. .

Fuji's image grew sordid, sullied by each of his thoughts. Still, his temptation to reach out and touch the pale, shining cheek grew overwhelming, and in the night, he would hear false whispers of his own give name. 'Kunimitsu, Kunimitsu'. Never had Tezuka's thoughts produced such a sensual word, yet when he met Fuji in the daytime, 'Kunimitsu' was not the word that he spoke. In a way, Tezuka's heart grew ravenous. Yet this man of few words and few emotions could not express it; it remained bottle inside until his thoughts threatened to burst from his mouth as dark words.

Tezuka didn't know that he would be the first one to step over the line when he invited Fuji over to study that day.

That day, Fuji's image blurred against the rainy sky as they battled the rain all the way home across the barren streets. The rain kicked up mist that played at their feet, and Tezuka several times was forced to adjust his grip on the umbrella to combat the wind that blasted at he and Fuji. The rain only paid tribute to that undeniable, tempting beauty. The cold reddened his cheeks and lips, and Fuji's eyes were fully open to battle the storm that battered them to and fro. Once, he skimmed his fingers over Fuji's cool knuckles that turned white in the storm. The gaze was enough to whisper words in his ears, and Tezuka nearly swayed. Fuji remained innocently unaware of it, and the temptation in each action grew. It wouldn't be so hard to pull Fuji back into the comforting confines of the dark, would it? Tezuka was beginning to dislike the chains that kept him there. Fuji would make a suitable companion in a world where he couldn't see anything. Those beautiful blue eyes could pierce anything.

Each action was deliberate of maintaining their proximity. So soon as they reached Tezuka's room, he watched Fuji breath for a minute, tracing each miniscule rise and fall of his chest before his lips spoke on their own, and he left Fuji alone to get him a towel. Of course, in their battle with the rain they had their umbrellas, so neither were very wet, but Fuji's hair still dripped slightly. Each strand clung to his neck and the sides of the face, and it probably did not help warm Fuji. While he left Fuji stood there idly while he stared out the window, tracing the spine of a book on the shelf. That was how Tezuka found Fuji when he reentered, but a strange feeling passed his chest when Fuji turned his face.

The color on Fuji's face had subsided back to its general pallor again, but he perhaps paled even farther at Tezuka's gaze. Once, it had never dared demand anything of him. Now, glowing expectations lay behind restraints that Tezuka built himself. Though once they had been brick walls, Tezuka's barriers were crumbling by the insanity that Fuji's gaze brought. The rain painted an aesthetic picture outside, and Fuji's eyes tore away from Tezuka to stare out at it with wide, blue eyes. Tezuka shut his door and came to stand at Fuji's side, taking the towel and pressing it into Fuji's hair, running it gently through to absorb the water before he folded it and set it on the desk.

"Horrible weather," Fuji commented, though the words that passed his lips were merely that—words, spoken for the sake of repressing the tension that Tezuka's gaze brought upon him, a horrible burden that almost frightened Fuji. Tezuka nodded, and for a moment, his tongue almost spoke the suggestion that they begin their studies. After all, it was already late. Fuji would need to leave soon. Instead he tracked Fuji's small movement as he traced the cool windowpane delicately, then ran his fingers against the window frame. Lightning illuminated Fuji's face and eyes, and Tezuka froze, before reaching out to place his hand over Fuji's.

Even at that very moment, he meant little of his actions. He did not wish for this sordid, instinct-based relationship with Fuji. After they went their separate ways after middle school, Tezuka found little that they could relate in. These small solaces were the only thing he could take, though at that very moment the temptation to steal everything away from Fuji was stronger than anything that had ever coursed through his blood. His parents weren't home—nobody would hear if Fuji screamed. At that very moment, he could have done anything he wanted to Fuji. His tight-knit control wavered only slightly when his fingers skimmed the back of Fuji's hand in a caress, and Fuji's gaze sharpened.

Fuji's pale hand slipped from under his.

There it was, that steely, serious gaze that his heart longed for. Something was different, though. Fuji wasn't standing on the other side of the net. They were not holding tennis racquets. This time, now, he could_touch_ Fuji. That alone made everything blur; it was foreign, frightening. Now, he couldn't feel Fuji's hands sliding across his cheeks, and then meshing with his hair. Tezuka didn't even make a sound when Fuji pulled his face forward, stood on tiptoe, and latched his lips against Tezuka.

With a sudden rush of heat, Tezuka's resolve dissolved completely, dissipating into the surrounding atmosphere that seemed so much colder as compared to Fuji's radiating warmth. In a flash of movement, he too tangled his fingers in Fuji's hair and returned the press of lips so harshly that Fuji squeaked, enough to drive his emotions to a fever pitch. Fuji just did this to him, and now he lost every single thought to the wind as he left Fuji breathless with kisses and bites. Their kiss wasn't even coherent—it was sloppy and Fuji once gagged when he pressed a tongue a little too far back in his mouth. Even if Tezuka could sense it, he would have cared less if Fuji's mouth began to bleed.

"Tezu—"

The rest of Fuji's words were cut to incoherent murmurs. Their bodies were pressing, Fuji's fingers digging into his shoulders while in turn Tezuka's dug under Fuji's chin and against his neck. Taking a deep breath, Fuji squeezed his eyes shut when Tezuka's kisses grew bruising against his neck. His mind grew cloudy and unaware of his own actions, his lips tasted blood; perhaps his mind grew darker. This was not Tezuka that showed himself through, but the manifestation of evil that rested at the depths of every human soul. Fuji returned it with fever, pushing Tezuka back on the wall before their knees gave out and they both fell, breaking for only a moment when Tezuka crawled over Fuji, pushing the boy to lay back fully on his back while he looked up at Tezuka, who was on his hands and knees; his legs rested on either side of Fuji and his hands were on either side next to Fuji's head. In fact, it was a rather effective trap; whichever way he moved, seeming rather flustered as he looked for a way to gain advantage of the situation, Tezuka was able to push him back on the ground. His hands pressed upward, pushing the fabric of Fuji's shirt away to rub Fuji's stomach. Each jerky movement was enough to make Fuji's breath hitch and for miniscule whimpers and pleas to escape his lips while his own mind traveled to the overwhelming pleasure. He observed Fuji when he pushed him free of the confines of his shirt. Here he was, holding Fuji's wrists above his head while Fuji squeezed his eyes shut and panted.

All he really needed was this small solace, to see Fuji lay before him, revealed and pinned, to understand the full meaning of his dreams, nightmares, and emotions, before he sent his fingertips splaying across Fuji's chest, the light touch scaling downward made Fuji squirm, and still the whimpers escaped his lips even when Fuji spoke no words. Even then, when each tentative move was made by instinct and not knowledge, he found small spots that made Fuji's breathing grow louder and his soft whines more frequent, full of unspoken pleas. His fingers splayed across the fabric of Fuji's pants, applying pressure here and there. Finally, Fuji gave a loud cry, something that sounded like a beautiful mix between a scream and a moan.

That was enough to drive him over the edge to spiraling insanity. He pulled down Fuji's pants past his hips and lost all sense of conscious thoughts as he rested his body atop Fuji's, and Fuji pulled him downward for a bruising kiss that made both their mouths bleed. All Tezuka was interested in now was pressing recklessly onward, caching each moan, each scream with his mouth and skillfully silencing them all until they reduced to pleading whimpers and soft-spoken words that sent shivers down Tezuka's spine.

Every single memory from there onward was lost in a mirage of heat. All he was aware of was skin against skin, the erotic and sweet feeling that made his pulse race.

Looking back on it now, on stormy days, Tezuka could remember afterwards when they dared separate, while Fuji traced his lips and allowed his rough breathing to settle. Bruises splayed across his thighs and on his neck, but Fuji was so far-gone to bring knowledge to them, saving the aching cut where Tezuka had broken the skin on his neck with his teeth, still bleeding slightly. Tezuka's eyes traced hungrily across Fuji's naked form while he pulled on his own clothes, and Fuji murmured words that made Tezuka's spine prickle. "God, Tezuka…" He whispered.

"Take this." Now, Tezuka handed Fuji a turtleneck sweater. Fuji donned it and wore it; the fabric went all the way up his neck, hiding the bruises and cuts. His school pants were fine, but Tezuka handed him a pair that matched the turtleneck, and, whispering an explanation to Fuji, he ordered him to tell his mother that the reason he sported the sweater was because his uniform was soaked in the storm. Fuji nodded, and Tezuka pressed a softer kiss to the side of his mouth. For a moment, Fuji allowed himself to be held before Tezuka released him, and Fuji picked up his uniform and schoolbag. Really, it was a blessing they hadn't made a mess on the floor.

"I'll see you tomorrow," his whispers were a crescendo to his ears, among the sound of rain pattering against the window. Fuji seemed to wish to speak, but Tezuka's gaze prevented any words from bubbling past his lips, bruised and swollen from kissing as they were.

"Be careful when you go home,"

His gentle advice was not meant as concern, at least, that was how it appeared. His words were far away and detached. Fuji pushed a strand of hair behind his ear and tried making excuses for himself. "Yes." Fuji was uncharacteristically succinct, and Tezuka unusually verbose. Befitting, perhaps, that each person, drowning in the sudden guilt of their sin, diverted from their usual antics. Tezuka's eyes held no warmth for Fuji, and that perhaps hurt his heart.

Looking back on it now, Tezuka would admit that their relationship had gone awry. What once could have been an emotional, healthy, stable, and balanced relationship had been thrown to the wind for something for something far more sinister. Fuji simply brought out evil in Tezuka that nobody had ever thought possible. Otherwise, how would their tangles and affairs be possible? Fuji initiated most make-out sessions, tucked away in the darkest corers of the school, and they would settle the matter later when privacy was feasible. By his first month of this relationship with Fuji, Tezuka had an unspeakable bond with Fuji, and likewise, Fuji was glued forever at his side. However, something did change.

Where Tezuka excelled, Fuji failed. Within two months, Fuji dropped from his place at Tezuka's side in the academic rankings to something that was unbefitting of a genius. Even Tezuka had to turn his head up at it. However, as his motives grew darker, and Fuji's responses more desperate, his mind clouded over even on the clearest of spring and summer days when the scent of cherry blossom danced across his nose. Fuji had little more to do than stay at his side. Tezuka knew little of Fuji's personal life aside from dismal academic performance. Even with his deep unwillingness to face it, Tezuka knew within his mind that Fuji was steadily declining. Why else would he know the sight of Fuji's ribs against his skin?

The next week, Fuji's voice grew hoarse.

All Tezuka could spare him was simple; formal words that only a previous captain could give. "Go home and rest until you are feeling better,"

Surprisingly, Fuji took his advice. By the next day, he was not in school. He paid little attention and went to his notes. In fact, the room felt empty, for he knew there would be no secretive gazes or secret meetings that brought fear to both their hearts. Tezuka remained in his homeroom for lunch that day while it poured, and he wondered if Fuji was really resting in bed, or if he was up to general antics characteristic of Fuji.

The day after that, Fuji still hadn't returned. Maybe he had the flu.

Fuji wasn't there the next day, or the next.

Tezuka decided secretly to himself that he would go to meet Fuji if he did not come to school the next day. For some reason, not having Fuji's touch was strange. In his lust-driven mind, it may have not mattered that Fuji's emotional presence was there, but there was a certain familiarity that Fuji's kisses gave off, now. When the days grew darker, touching Fuji's face, evil as it was with his intentions, was enough to quell his worries. He looked up to his homeroom teacher, who had called the class to attention. Today was another blustery, rainy day, but Tezuka rarely noted such a grave expression on her face.

"Class, I would like to let you know that Fuji-kun committed suicide yesterday." Tezuka dropped his pen. The room grew silent. In back, a girl burst into tears, but he remained firmly numb, his fingers curled slightly. "His family wants to say that anybody wishing to give respects may come to his wake. It will be Sunday night…" her voice trailed off while she gave times and places, but Tezuka could no longer hear. The class huddled in a group, talking, but he was unable to collect the mess of his heart and join them. Instead, he ran his fingers instinctively across the top of the inside of his desk. There was a note taped there; just barely against the tips of his deft fingers, he could feel the contrast of paper on wood.

Damn.

He knew whom it was from.

Fuji never gave a note to anybody else, Tezuka thought as he stood over Fuji's family grave, currently decorated with Fuji's picture and small offerings. However, abandoning the horrible weather, his family was not there, and Tezuka was left alone, looking at a picture of somebody who was now eternally smiling back at him.

"Horrible weather," he mentioned calmly, his voice never wavering. Beneath his glasses, his eyes glowed in golden flame. Fuji smiled back at him, considerably pale, smaller, yet so obviously Fuji. A ghost of a boy ran his hand across his cheek, but nobody was there. Tezuka clenched his fists.

Lightning illuminated the atmosphere, but there was nobody standing next to him.

His eyes dilated and he drew a knife from the pocket of his coat. Even in the darkness, it glinted with strange light. Running the tip of his finger against it, he gave only enough pressure to make a small cut, and then ran his finger against the glass that separated his skin from Fuji's photograph. There was a small trail of blood there, but soon it was diluted and reduced to water by the pouring the rain. Tezuka continued running his finger off the glass, before he drew his eyes away from the beautiful picture to catch his reflection in the knife. Looking back at him was a shameful man who was still far too proud to reveal his true emotions to anyone, anybody apart from Fuji, and Fuji was gone.

What would he do?

Fuji's face smile back at him encouragingly, and Tezuka shook his head.

Surely, years ago, he would have been better than this. His insanity brewed beneath his skin, though, and no longer could he continue this. Was this Fuji's method of revenge? This was the worst kind of death, by insanity. Smiling, Fuji had walked to his deathbed, and he had dragged Tezuka along for the ride. Tezuka raised the blade to eye level and released a single breath.

"For you,"

_I love you, Tezuka._


End file.
